Sorry About My Arms

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Sorry About My Arms

I’ve been out-of-town recently, in northern Alberta. And I mean Northern. And while there, I did atrocious things. Not the least of which:

I ate gluten.

I’m sorry now. I know better. Because I know the path to perdition and bat-wing triceps is paved with gluten. Gluten is the gateway to loose morals, gingivitis, cheating on one’s taxes, and invariably leads to stress incontinence.

I mention this because I did my first vlog this week for Romance Writers Weekly (I Wanna be a You-Tuber). No big whup EXCEPT that I reshot the entire thing because of my upper arms.

I have HUGE upper arms. Normally I don’t think about them because these arms allow me to open jars, lift weights, sling my kids around. But then I did the unthinkable:

I recorded my image whilst wearing a tank top.

I confess. I’m no better than the infamous People of Wal-Mart. I tote my arms around like they have a right to be exposed. Willy nilly I have gone around showing people that I, Tracey Gee, have eaten gluten and worse (carbs). I have the arms to prove it. I blame the grain which drained my brain and allowed me to commit such senseless acts of digestion, or so some book told me. I forgot which book but it doesn’t matter. I only read the blurb on Amazon before I laughed a little laughed and ate a Jammie Dodger.

You are amazed, I’m sure, to hear I left her standing. Wheat-belly-poking finger attached? Yes. I still need her. Also, like Satan, the Chiro of the Festering Pit of Everlasting Flatulence is older than dirt, and I can’t help but suck it up for the elderly. I choose my battles to win my wars. There is no honour in telling an older lady who, in her demonic own way, meant well. I bit back the “up yours, around the corner, and back again” retort I would otherwise have offered and smiled à la Hannibal LectorcumStepford Wife.

I thought this was all forgotten by me, in yet another of my #menopausalmoments, until I did the first take of my vlog for LOVExtra.com this week. I watched my first take of my first vlog, noticing that I didn’t flub my lines, my hair was pretty good, but then I saw it: my arms! Great Triceps of Perdition! Flopping about like hopeful extras in the Fish Slapping Dance.

I did what any other post-modern, self-assured woman of the New Millennium would have done: I reshot the video with a Liz Claiborne Petites mid-sleeve blouse (Goodwill, 5 bucks) thrown casually atop my delts, obscuring their grotesquery from all and sundry.

Am I sorry I did it? Yes and no.

Yes

The first take was great. Wonderful. Birds sang as a unicorn stopped in to borrow a cup of stevia. Together we sang The Hills are Alive.. (or was it The Hills Have Eyes)?

It was a lovely video; and the subtitles I added made three bunnies weep with joy.

I should embrace my arms. They are part of my ontology, not to mention my bod. They do wonderful things for me. They’re big. Get used to it.

No

The vid was too long. Four minutes. Even at three minutes (the current video), the vlog would likely remain unwatched by humans. The cats have watched them many times over and like Steve Forbes, never once blinked. (Oh, and for the Forbes’ fans reading this, I know he really does blink.Here’s another video to prove it.)

We Librans pride ourselves on balance.

So a second take, shorter, was the way to go. What I regret is that my first thought was: look how big my arms are!

Dear Arms I’m really really sorry I was mean to you. Please don’t punish me by refusing to reach the Nutella on the top shelf. Love, Me